


The Devil and Billy Jones

by hangdog



Series: The Respawn Conspiracy [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Animal Death, Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, Holocaust, Homophobia, Horror, Humiliation, M/M, Racism, Rape, Snuff, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-13 18:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15370845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangdog/pseuds/hangdog
Summary: Classic Heavy tries to get rid of the new hire. Medic refuses to stay dead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: What you are about to read is vile, offensive garbage. Please note the tags.
> 
> This story incorporates characters from the comics, but it takes place before the current comic storyline.

Back before Jones started thinking of himself as the Heavy Weapons Guy, when he was too young to know his ass from his elbow, he shipped out to France in the first war and spent a couple years digging trenches that doubled as mass graves. He watched morons run headlong into Kraut bullets and waited for his turn to do the same. All he could think about when he sat knee deep in mud was that he wasn’t getting paid enough for this shit.

Military discipline never sat right with Jones when he was on the receiving side. He still daydreams about torturing his drill sergeants to death. Ironically, Jones only learned about the joys of ordering people around after he left the army and found a better gig in a private mercenary group run by Team Fortress Industries.

Jones, Ross, and the two Gregs were the only veterans among the team. Ross was a soft-spoken monster, and Moustache Greg was his sick buddy. They served together on the Italian front, where they spent most of their time looking for stray war orphans. The other Greg was a whiny pain in the ass, to the point that he was somehow less tolerable than the pedophile duo. He was the only person in the world who could make hand grenades sound boring.

Fred Conagher wasn’t any easier to tolerate at first. This little piggie was too smart for his own good. Every time Jones saw him, he wanted to steal his lunch money. That changed when Fred lost his first leg and swapped it out for an experimental prosthesis without shedding a tear. The piglet became a hog that day. Years later, when Fred chopped off his other leg and turned himself into a cyborg from the waist down, Jones shook his hand.

Bea earned Jones’s respect before any of the men. He couldn’t let her know that she was his favorite. Unlike Jones’s ex-wives, Bea was big, bold, and bitchy. She stole from the other mercenaries and lit bonfires full of their belongings. When they confronted her, she beat their asses and threatened them with an axe. Jones punched her in the eye for burning his pinups, and she kicked him in the dick with her size twelves.

Doc patched Jones up after that and convinced him that he was still the leader of the boys, even if the girl did her own thing. Doc was kind of a father to Jones back then—more than Jones’s dad ever was, anyway. He was at least twenty years older than anyone else, and he had worked at TF before most of the others had dropped out of school. Doc was from Hollywood, and he was some kind of science genius at MIT before he signed a multimillion dollar contract to help TF invent Respawn.

Ghost was the other old timer, their intel man. He was French-Canadian, coincidentally. Something was wrong with him. Maybe he was an albino? Jones never really got a good look at Ghost, since he was always masked and lurking in the shadows. Ghost was like Virgil, another distant Canuck. Virgil preferred to be alone in a nest a mile away, watching everyone through the sight on his gun and using a jar as a latrine. Part of being a leader was recognizing the value in each member of the team. In Jones’s opinion, Ghost and Virgil were valuable because they made clean kills and kept their bullshit to themselves.

Jones liked shouting at his men and Bea. He liked leading the charge on the battlefield in arbitrary battles against the other nine freaks that looked just like them. Every day from ten to six, he made the sky rain with bullets and turned people into Swiss cheese. 1930 to 1965. Those were the fucking days. If Jones had a time machine, he’d go back and do it all over again, except he’d skip the parts with the faggot.

Doc’s wife had this queer French nephew. Everyone called the guy Lapointe. He showed up around ‘58, when he started blowing one of the TF executives, a snobby Brit named Darling. Doc tried to break them up, but it turned out that Darling was paying Lapointe, and he wouldn’t give up the money. At least, that’s what everyone thought.

Doc confided in Jones that he tried to pay his nephew out of his own salary, but Lapointe turned him down. Turns out that the money didn’t matter. Lapointe just needed to be put in his place.

Jones saw him around the base now and again, showing his legs off in tailored suits, smoking cigarillos, and leaning against walls with his hip cocked to the side like a prostitute. Lapointe looked back at Jones with half-lidded eyes and ran his tongue over his lips.

“I agree,” said Doc when Jones told him about it. “He wants you to dominate him.”

Jones didn’t know how to respond, except for the obvious. “I ain’t queer.”

“It’s perfectly normal heterosexual behavior to penetrate an orifice,” Doc answered.

Jones had a smoke. “They teach you that in California?”

Doc laughed, slapped Jones’s shoulder, and took off for the lab. Jones played Doc’s words over and over in his head. Was Doc telling Jones to fuck his nephew? Was Jones supposed to do that?

Jones missed sleep all week. The next time he saw Lapointe sashaying around the base, he cornered him outside and kneed him in the stomach. Lapointe was tall, but there was nothing to his skinny body. He fell over, clutching his gut and croaking in pain. Jones grabbed Lapointe by his hair and sat him up on his knees. He shoved his crotch into Lapointe’s face. He didn’t have to yell or say anything: Lapointe immediately opened his fly and put his mouth around Jones.

“Fucking whore,” Jones gasped, pumping Lapointe’s head against his ramrod straight dick. Lapointe moaned, and his silky mouth hummed around Jones. “Fucking faggot slut.” Jones arched his hips and jolted his hips up against Lapointe’s throat, holding his head in place. He wanted Lapointe to throw up on Jones’s boots, so that he could slap him around for it.

Lapointe swallowed Jones like a champ. His face streamed with tears, but he looked directly up at Jones, staring at him with his grey wolf eyes. He didn’t look human. A human would be more upset. A human would have fought, or bitten Jones’s dick off.

Jones kicked Lapointe down and ripped Lapointe’s expensive slacks to his knees. He fucked Lapointe from behind with nothing but the spit on his dick. Lapointe took it and, swear to God, didn’t even flinch. His asshole was loose like a girl’s pussy, but Lapointe worked Jones up and down his shaft, pushing his round little ass up in the air. Jesus, it was good. Jones grabbed Lapointe’s neck and crushed his windpipe, and it was even better when Lapointe started jumping around and squeezing his ass like a vice. Finally, Lapointe was trying to escape, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Jones came all over Lapointe’s ruined suit and threw a handful of bills on top of him before he walked away. Soon as his heart rate got back to normal, he started regretting everything and wishing he never saw Lapointe again.

Jones didn’t get his wish, but that was okay. Once the other mental cases at TF learned about Lapointe, everyone wanted to see how far they could push the infamous French hooker. Turns out Lapointe wasn’t all queer, because Bea liked banging him just as much as anyone else. Reaming Lapointe’s ass while Bea sat on his face was as close to a relationship with Bea as Jones would ever have, and in a fucked up way, he was grateful to Lapointe for that.

Doc didn’t seem so much ashamed of his nephew as he was sad about his life choices. Jones had to admire Doc’s sense of priorities. Family was family, Doc said, and you had to help them no matter what.

It was that kind of integrity that made everyone turn out for Doc’s funeral. That was in ‘71, a few years after the team retired and Lapointe fucked his way up to Ghost’s old job. Jones ignored Lapointe throughout the ceremony, even though Lapointe was staring at him with those bedroom eyes. He focused on the unfair circumstances of Doc’s death. After a life full of genius inventions and glory in warfare, Doc died in a boring old car crash on Route 101. Jones expected Doc to come back through Respawn any day, but he didn’t.

Standing next to Lapointe at the funeral was a vaguely familiar guy with round glasses perched on a hook nose. Jones remembered that he was one of Doc’s lab assistants at TF. The Kraut egghead had taken over Doc’s old job.

Jones didn’t think much of that chance encounter. After he retired, he focused on enjoying as many women as he could before he died, and that hobby took up most of his time. Jones took the occasional trip with the old team, since no one else could party on their level. They brought Lapointe if they really wanted to cut loose, and since his job at TF was a joke, he always showed up to get plowed.

Jones had some trouble with the law later that year. He was usually good about covering his tracks, until he did an eightball of coke and got too enthusiastic with a girl in Vegas. He accidentally cracked her skull open when he was doing her in the shower. He felt really bad about it. He chopped her up and buried her in the desert with the millions of other dead prostitutes, but a cop followed him out there and caught Jones in his headlights.

Jones was ready to kill himself in prison when a little old troll named Gray showed up and hired him back as a mercenary. Best of all, the job was about tracking down and killing the old bitch Administrator and their mentally defective replacements at TF. Jones and the boys could do it as painfully as they wanted.

There was only one problem. They needed a field medic.


	2. Chapter 2

The more Jones learned about the prospective hire, the less he liked the idea. He didn’t care that this “Ludwig” had worked for TF before Gray’s robots wrecked the company. He took one look at the personnel file that Ghost had provided, and threw it across the room.

“He’s a Nazi!” Jones screamed at the mercs. “I’m not having no fuckin’ Nazi on my team!”

“Shit, who cares?” Bea yawned, stretching in her chair. She had gotten fat in her old age. Jones would still fuck her. “If they’re good enough for the American government, they’re good enough for us.”

“If I may,” Ghost interrupted, “I found no evidence that he, erm, _directly_ participated in any war crimes.”

“Of course there’s no fuckin’ proof. He burned everything and escaped through Brazil with the other guy. Can you idiots read, or what?”

“Nazis are smart,” said Moustache Greg. Ross nodded in agreement. “I’d rather work with them than those dirty—”

“Are you out of your goddamned minds?” Jones shouted. “He’s a Nazi doctor, and he’s got no medical license. He’ll turn us into hand puppets. I don’t fucking think so!”

Fred flipped through his copy of Medic’s file. “Captain’s right,” he said, using his cute pet name for Jones so that he could pretend he and Jones were friends. “It says here that he experimented on his mercs at TF all the time. Somethin’ about...what in tarnation...mega baboons?”

“Lemme see that.” Jones snatched Fred’s folder and found the photographs of Team Fortress 2 in all their glory, sliced up like deli meat and rearranged like so many puzzle pieces around transplanted parts. Some of the pictures featured Medic’s smiling face in the corner. He was so proud of his acts against God that he included himself in the documentation.

The other Greg reviewed his own copy and reminisced. “Doc never cut us open unless we needed it,” he pouted.

“Yeah, well, Doc hired him in the first place,” shrilled Bea, “and then he recommended the guy for his job. So, I vote yes. Can we get out of here now? I didn’t get into the killing business to have _staff meetings._ ”

“This ain’t a fuckin’ democracy,” Jones roared. “I make the decisions around here.”

“Oh, really?” Bea waved her copy of the file. “Why don’t I tell Gray Mann that he better stop wasting our time and hire this asshole, so’s we can start hunting our prey already?”

The mercs murmured in agreement around the table. Jones dug his fingernails into his palms, squeezing his fists until his knuckles turned white.

The way to be a leader was to act like a leader. Jones could have beaten every last one of them to death, but since TF disconnected them from Respawn, they had to live like mere mortals. Gray Mann didn’t have the same tech. If they were going to survive this job, they had to be smart, and that meant limiting conflict unless it was essential to maintain order.

Jones spoke between his clenched teeth. “Who votes to hire Ludwig?”

Bea’s pudgy hand shot into the air. Ross and Moustache Greg looked at each other and raised their hands. In the back of the room, Ghost waved his palm at Jones. Virgil lifted his arm and suspended it, rock-steady, next to his head.

Fred and the other Greg shrugged at Jones. Jones turned his head and spat on the conference room floor.

 

* * *

 

Later that week, Jones came face to face with the Medic in Gray’s renovated Mann Co. base. Medic shook Jones’s hand and jerked his arm like he actually wanted to square off with him. He said, in the chirpiest German accent Jones had ever heard, “It will be wonderful to work with a weapons specialist of your calibre.”

Jones tried to break his fingers. Medic responded by gripping even harder. “I see that you do not need any improvements to your musculature. Excellent! I can proceed directly to your internal organs. How is your heart?”

“You ain’t gonna touch me unless I’m bleedin’ out,” Jones growled, tossing Medic’s hand away.

Medic laughed like it was some kind of joke. “How am I to fulfill my job description if I can’t examine you, Herr Jones?”

“Call me Heavy, and shut the fuck up unless someone’s about to die, got it? I got shit to do.” Jones ignored the snickering and murmuring of the other mercs, who had also turned out to meet the Medic. He started to leave.

Medic had to get the last word in. “As you wish, Herr Heavy!” Jones heard Medic chatting with the others as he left. “Now, which one of you is Greg? Oh, both of you? Yes, the moustache does help me to tell the difference.”

Jones made it across the base in record time. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the boys were laughing at him. They all knew he didn’t want to hire the Kraut, and now he just ran off like he was scared of the giggling little pansy.

He closed the door to his temporary bunk behind him. His dick was crammed up against the metal cup he wore under his body armor, and when he finally removed the cup, it sprang up with pubescent eagerness.

Jones had no idea what was going on. He wasn’t queer. He had only ever fucked the French whore, and that was because Lapointe seduced him. Doc said it didn’t make Jones homosexual if he just fucked someone. It was only queer if Jones was the one getting fucked.

Somehow, that didn’t make Jones feel better, or make his erection go away. He grimaced and spat in his hand before he went through the motions. All he could think about was Lapointe’s freshly douched little ass grinding against him. He realized that he was jerking off with the same hand that Medic shook, and that made his heart hammer in his ears. He felt like he was going to pass out by the time he came like a fire hose between his fingers.

Jones could only think of one explanation. Medic wanted Jones to dominate him, like Doc said. Jones wouldn’t react this way if Medic wasn’t sending those signals. Hatred flared up in Jones, and he slammed his soiled knuckles into the wall. That Nazi fuck was already getting into his head, making him look bad in front of the boys, making him masturbate like a shamefaced teenager in his bunk.

Jones had to show him who was the fuckin’ boss around here.

 

* * *

 

“You are in incredibly good condition for your age,” commented Medic.

Jones didn’t respond. He hadn’t said a word to him since he turned up for the examination. Medic pretended that they were having a conversation either way. He also pretended that Jones wasn’t staring at him like meat on a butcher’s hook.

“I must admit my surprise that the rejuvenation technology from 1930 provided such sustained benefit. I would have expected a sharp decline in physiological condition as soon as you left the base, but it appears that your very aging process has been stymied.” Medic palpated Jones’s bare chest and back, feeling him all over. “Breathe naturally for me, _bitte._ ” Jones gritted his teeth, but he played along. Medic’s fingers halted over his deltoids. “You have become very tense. Are you feeling any tenderness when I touch you there? The steroids that you use will cause some swelling.”

“I’m just wondering why you keep pretending like you’re a real doctor,” Jones sneered. “Seems like this whole thing is a waste of my time while you get your kicks.”

Medic stepped back from the examination table and looked at Jones over the rims of his glasses. “I assume that you are familiar with my job description.”

Jones was close to his weak spot. He could sense it. The only reason he’d turned up for this charade was to figure out how to get under Medic’s skin. “Your ‘job description’ is to use your magic gun to shoot us better when we need it, not trick us into thinking you have some kind of real skill so we feel better about your experiments. I know you’re two minutes from cuttin’ me open and tryin’ to shove _that_ thing into me,” he growled, jabbing his finger at some kind of oversized animal organ in a jar nearby. Medic tried to pretend like he hadn’t noticed it. “But first, you tried to pretend like you have some kind of medical credentials. Why bother? We both know you’re a fake.”

“You have made your opinion quite clear,” Medic sniffed. “But you are wrong.”

Jones tried to look him in the eye, but he had Medic on the defensive, and the doctor started putting away instruments and shooing his filthy flying rat pigeons out of the way like he had somewhere else to be. Jones raised his voice. “Everything I said is a verifiable fact, you fuckin’ Nazi fraud.”

Medic rounded on him, wielding a pair of forceps like a knife. He became a different person when he wasn’t smiling. He had a jaw like a shovel and a mouth like a scar. “ _No._ You are incorrect. The _facts_ are that I _attained_ a medical license, I am _exceedingly_ qualified for my position, and I was _never_ affiliated with the Nazi party.”

Medic looked like he was about to throw a punch, or stab Jones with the forceps. Now Jones was the one who got to smile like a smug asshole while Medic glowered at him. “See, ‘doc’,” he said, dragging out the nickname in singsong, “I have trouble believing that, on account of everything in your file says the opposite. See, _doc,_ ” he repeated, feeling a thrill of joy when Medic’s teeth showed in his scowl, “I happen to know that you turned up in Brazil after the war with a Nazi doctor, name of Werner, ain’t that right?”

Medic’s eyes bulged behind his glasses. “How did you know…”

“Our spy is the best in the business,” Jones gloated. “Better than that French faggot you used to work with by a long shot. We got intelligence like you wouldn’t believe.” It was all part of Gray’s plan to hunt down the younger team of mercs, but Medic didn’t need to know that yet, not when Jones was about to make him regret taking this job in the first place.

He’d spooked him, all right. Medic was pale and silent. Jones had dug up some deep skeletons from his past. Now he just had to deliver the finishing blow. He got off the examination table and stood over Medic. The doctor wasn’t a short man, but Jones had always been taller and broader than anyone he met. Medic came up under his eyebrows.

Jones leaned in. He plucked Medic’s glasses off his face, folded the earpieces, and tucked them into his own shirt. Medic could go and find himself a new pair. “I got your number _._ You think you can turn my base into another Auschwitz?” Jones said softly. “I was killin’ Krauts when you were in shorty pants. You take one step out of line, give me one reason to think you’re doing more than nurse work, and I will _end_ you.”

Medic’s jaw twitched from side to side. His mouth smoothed out, and he squared his shoulders. Jones got ready to intercept a punch.

Instead, Medic did something incredible. He laughed. Jones stared dumbly as Medic threw back his head with a joyless cackle. The laughter clawed its way out of Medic like an overgrown parasite. Jones backed away without thinking about it.

Medic was still making that awful noise when he snatched his glasses back. He slipped them on to his nose and flashed Jones the biggest, craziest grin in his arsenal.

“Forgive me, but your misplaced bravado is extremely amusing,” Medic gasped. He paused for breath, still chuckling. Weird, how the corners of his mouth turned down. “You are so certain that you ‘got my number,’ and yet you do not know the first thing about me.”

Medic was trying to scare him with the madman routine. It wouldn’t work on Jones. “I think I know enough,” he said, regaining the ground he’d lost. “You can try and laugh it off, but I meant what I said. You keep your goddamned animal parts out of my boys.”

Medic scoffed. “Or _what_?”

It was the opening he’d been waiting for. Medic never saw the punch coming. Jones threw a right hook into his jaw, snapping Medic’s head into his opposite shoulder. Medic staggered and fell back into a stack of crates. Jars shattered inside the falling boxes. All around him, pigeons squawked and flew off their perches.

“There’s more where that came from,” gloated Jones.

Medic straightened his glasses and faced Jones again. When he grinned, there was blood on his teeth. “You may look good for your age, but you hit like an old man.”

Jones jabbed with his left, but now that Medic knew where he was coming from, he could weave out of the way. Medic raised his fists up under his chin, blocked another hook with his arm, and punched Jones in the throat. He had one hell of an arm for a nurse. If he had any real medical training at all, it told him exactly where to hit. Jones actually had trouble breathing for a second. He came at Medic with a vengeance, but Medic danced away, mocking him with his laughter. Someone had trained the crazy fuck to box.

“You think this is a game?” Jones growled, pursuing Medic. He had him on the run. If he could corner him, it was all over. “Who taught you to pussyfoot around like that? Was it your fat Commie boyfriend?”

“A far better fighter than you will ever be,” Medic responded, switching his path so that Jones couldn’t trap him against a wall. “Come on, _alter cocker._ Hit me like you mean it.”

The Kraut was having fun with him. He had no idea what Jones would do when he caught him. Jones would let him go on thinking it was a big joke, right up until it was too late. For now, he played along. He herded Medic across the floor and tried not to expend too much energy in swings that the younger man was fast enough to avoid. Medic got him a few more times, bolting in around Jones’s arm and peppering his ears until they rang. He laughed his damned head off the whole time, like he couldn’t stop.

His insane laughter was his undoing. Medic ran out of breath, and his fists dropped a few inches when he gasped for air. Jones was ready. He hit him as hard as he could and laid him out on the floor. Medic’s limbs sprawled out and his jaw hung open. K.O.

Jones probably didn’t have long before Medic came to. He grabbed him by the shoulders, threw him over the operating table, and flung the hem of his lab coat up over his back. Jones unbuttoned Medic’s pants and pushed them down to his ankles with his underwear. He hooked his foot through the wad of fabric to keep it in place, effectively trapping Medic’s legs in his own clothes.

Medic started mumbling and flopping his head around when Jones took off his tie and used it to bind his wrists behind his back. He had just enough time to knot it tightly before Medic really started fighting back.

“Or what?” Jones growled in his ear. “This is what. Nazi fuck.” He hocked up a wad of phlegm, spat in his hand, and shoved his fingers up Medic’s ass. Medic gasped and drove hard against the metal surgical table. His futile struggles did wonders for Jones’s dick. At his age, it could take a minute or two to get it up, but Medic had that rare quality that got Jones stiff as a board in half the time.

He worked Medic like a hand puppet, watching eagerly as the reality of the situation sank into Medic’s scrambled brains. Medic choked as Jones added his thumb and attempted to splay out his fingers. Jones whistled. “Nice and tight.”

Medic dragged himself from side to side on the table, fighting to fall off the edge to the ground, where he could crawl away. Jones deterred him by grabbing a handful of his hair and slamming his face into the steel. He heard a crack and a groan. Blood pooled under Medic’s chin. Better and better. Jones swiped his hand through it and added it to the impromptu lubrication. He grabbed Medic’s shoulders and dragged him back on to his dick as he pierced him, coating Medic’s insides with his own blood. Medic’s broken nose distorted his cries of pain.

Jones reared back, punishing him every time he slammed his dick in, and pinning Medic’s junk against the sharp edge of the metal table. He gave it to him as hard as he could, but something felt off. Medic was too quiet. Jones noticed that Medic had planted his feet wide apart to gain purchase on his heels, so that he could rock back against him.

Jones reached between Medic’s legs. He was hard as a rock. “Well, fuck me. You like that?” He slapped Medic’s ass. “You like being fucked under your skirt, you pain-loving bitch?”

Medic ignored him, so Jones grabbed his chin and wrenched his head around, twisting him at the waist, so that Medic was forced to look at him. The naked shame on his face was a real thing of beauty. Jones squeezed Medic’s prick until he screamed in agony. “I’m gonna ruin you for that Russki dick, you fuckin’ Nazi faggot,” Jones threatened. “You’re gonna be so loose that my spunk is gonna be drippin’ outta you for a week.” Medic shuddered. His prick twitched like a divining rod. Jones dropped it when he realized he arousing Medic. He wasn’t a fairy—he wouldn’t jerk a guy off. “Yeah, you love it, don’t you, you Kraut whore?”

Medic coughed. Blood must have been dripping from his broken nose to the back of his throat. As soon as Jones made this connection, Medic spat a stinging chunk of congealed blood into his eyes. Jones reared back, swiping his eyes, and Medic used the opportunity to twist the rest of the way around and kick Jones in the chest hard enough to bring him to the floor. Medic must have slipped his boot out of his pants leg while Jones was distracted.

“You fuck like an old man, too,” Medic crowed, jumping off the table. Jones grabbed blindly for him. He felt Medic’s ankle and gripped hard, but Medic spun around and slammed his boot into Jones’s temple. Steel toed. Jones couldn’t see nothing but stars. He hit the floor. Dazed, he listened to Medic mincing around, putting his clothes back on, and probably tucking his stiff faggot cock away.

“For the record,” said Medic, as a machine whirred to life nearby, “your shaft doesn’t actually look bigger when the steroids shrink your testicles, Herr Jones. You merely appear to be impotent.”

Jones would _fucking kill him._ He swiped blood out of his eyes with his knuckles and sat up, squinting at the blue glow in the corner. Medic came into focus. He’d freed his hands somehow. He stood out of arm’s reach with the nozzle of his healing hose tilted up under his chin like a drinking stein. His nose mended itself as if Jones had never broken it. Jones would just have to smash it into too many pieces to repair. He pushed himself off the ground.

Medic pointed a contraption at him when he got to his feet. It looked like a nailgun loaded with syringes. Medic said, “We are done here,” and pulled the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

If Medic was so smart, then why didn’t he quit after Jones raped him?

Jones counted their fight as a victory, even if he woke up in the hallway with his dick hanging out and Bea laughing her ass off at him. He put Medic in his place. He showed him who was the boss. He fucked him like the sissy cunt that he was.

But Jones was the one who felt humiliated. Even though he fucked Medic, he knew deep down that Medic had ultimately pulled one over on him, and that drove him up a wall. Even worse, Medic hung around, schmoozed it up with the boys, and continued his experiments like he didn’t hear a word Jones said. Every time he saw Jones, the son of a bitch looked him right in the eyes and grinned at him a fucking Jack O’Lantern.

Medic was challenging him to do worse. He was a wily bastard, but Jones had taken down cleverer targets. What truly got under Jones’s skin, though, was the way that Medic didn’t seem bothered at all by being violated. He didn’t even flinch when Jones purposefully crowded him or lunged towards him in the hall. It wasn’t an act, either. Medic just wasn’t scared of him.

It was the biggest insult Jones had ever received. He didn’t care if Medic was too far out of touch with reality to recognize how dangerous Jones was. He couldn’t rest until he proved that he was on top. He wanted Medic begging and crying for mercy. His brief shame when Jones fucked him wasn’t enough. Jones would have to expose him down to the core, and pull out something that Medic could never put back inside.

No matter how Medic tried to brush him off, Jones knew he got under his skin at one point. Werner was the key: the Nazi doctor that had taken Medic to Brazil. Medic turned white as a sheet when Jones mentioned him.

Ghost had provided him with the information in the first place. The spook was tough to find even when he wasn’t working, but Jones left him a tip and waited for him to turn up.

“This is a waste of time,” said Ghost, when he appeared in the control room. Jones tried not to jump. Ghost liked to sneak up on you from behind. “We can all see that you have an unhealthy obsession with the new Medic.”

Jones spun around in his chair. “I told you that I didn’t want him here. He’s bad news.”

“We outvoted you for a reason. He was the best candidate. He fixed Greg’s heart.”

“He probably just pointed his healin’ hose at Greg until he got better!” Jones wasn’t about to let anyone challenge him anymore. “Who knows what else he’s doing to you boys in there? You’re all just lettin’ him mess around with your insides. I looked at our budget, too. You know we’re over a million in the hole already? He’s puttin’ in orders for animal organs from all across the goddamn planet!”

Ghost glared at Jones with his standard expression of bored contempt. He pulled his mask down from his mouth to enunciate. “You can’t control him. Get over it.”

Jones stood up. Arrogant as he was, Ghost backed down when Jones got in his face. Jones hadn’t had to lay a hand on any of the men since way back in the day, but it looked like Ghost was forgetting who was in charge. “I’m tryin’ to protect you ungrateful assholes. You let a Nazi scientist walk in here with access to whatever facilities he wants. Who knows what he’s plannin’ with all them organs?”

Ghost rolled his eyes. “You mean like the replacement lungs he gave to Bea?”

Jones grabbed Ghost by the shirt. “I’m tired of arguin’ with you. I know you got more information on him, you sneaky fuckin’ snow frog. I want it all.”

Ghost tried to look like he wasn’t intimidated. Jones could see through his front. Unlike Medic, Ghost wasn’t too crazy to be scared of him. Ghost pulled his mask back up so that Jones wouldn’t catch his lip trembling. “All I know is what I told you in the briefing. His records from Europe were destroyed. I could only track him from the time he arrived in Brazil.”

“Yeah, he was with another Nazi. Werner.” Jones didn’t let go of Ghost. He wasn’t finished. “What do you know about him?”

“I know that he’s dead. He had a private practice in Baía when Mossad captured him and brought him to Israel to be executed in ‘62. That was when Ludwig left for America.”

Jones chewed on that for a second. The Israelis tracked Werner down, but let Medic go? It didn’t make sense. “So you couldn’t find out what they were doin’ back in Europe?”

“I can extrapolate, if I must. Records exist, pre-Brazil, of Werner’s communication with other doctors that were tried for human experimentation. They were all working together at Natzweiler. That is the extent of my knowledge. Now, get your hands off me.” Ghost tried to leave.

Jones held him back. “What kind of experimentation?”

“ _Sacrament_ ,” Ghost swore. “Do you really want to know about that?”

“Whatever sick shit they were doing in that camp, that Nazi could be gettin’ ready to do to us!”

Ghost started prying Jones’s hand off his shirt. “My sources are inconclusive. Whatever happened is in the past. His old coworkers from RED were in good enough shape when I looked them up. Leave it be, Jones. You won’t like where this road will take you.”

Jones shoved Ghost across the room. “Your job is to give me information. I don’t need your advice.”

Ghost stood in the door, far enough away that Jones couldn’t grab him again. “You think that Ludwig will be our downfall, but the only problem that I see here is you.”

“You want me to break your fuckin’ head?” Jones lunged at him, but Ghost cloaked like the wimp he was and vanished in the hall.

At least Jones had a new lead. Before, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure what Medic was doing back home, but now he had a concrete location. Medic had quailed when Jones made his guess last time. He would crumple like a house of cards when Jones hit him next.

Jones had to plan out his attack. Medic knew that Jones was gunning for him, and he was probably prepared. The lab was his home turf. Medic had too many options and tools for self-defense. Jones couldn’t even sneak in without scaring those pigeons and alerting Medic to his presence. Medic was usually working, but he had to sleep and eat sometime, and he didn’t seem aware of the surveillance cameras that Gray Mann installed throughout the base. Jones would catch him when he least expected it.

Jones spent the entire next day in the control room, observing Medic through the cameras. He watched Medic put their scout under on the operating table. When Moustache Greg was out, Medic retrieved a row of jars from the medical freezer. He switched out the ligaments in Greg’s knees first. Jones couldn’t believe how quickly he performed the surgery. It would have gone even faster if he didn’t have to keep shooing away the flock of pigeons in the room.

Then, like a savage Aztec priest, Medic cut out Greg’s heart. Jones almost ran in to stop him, but without missing a beat, Medic replaced Greg’s heart with a bigger one. He jammed a metal apparatus into the muscle before he reconnected the valves. After the surgery, Greg jumped off the operating table, sprinted around the room faster than ever, and shook Medic’s hand.

Ghost was next. He came in to get his shoulder fixed up. He wouldn’t let Medic put him under, but the huge stationary healing gun over the table allowed him to endure the surgery without any apparent discomfort. The whole time, Ghost stared directly into the security camera, making eye contact with Jones like he was daring him to interrupt.

Jones had to laugh when Medic whipped out the replacement heart. Ghost balked, the moron. Jones turned up the sound levels in the lab.

“…could not even feel your shoulder replacement,” Medic persuaded, shaking the heart in the jar like he thought that it was an enticing sight.

Ghost glanced nervously between Medic and the security camera. “If you take out my heart, won’t I die?”

“Only for a minute, _mein freund._ ”

Jones slapped his knee. As much as he hated Medic, he loved watching Ghost squirm in the presence of the lunatic that he had tried so hard to defend.

Medic continued to try the hard sell. “Didn’t you see Greg? I just did his procedure. I could perform a heart transplant with my eyes closed. I have before, you know!” Ghost looked horrified. “Should I put you to sleep first?”

Wrong phrasing. Jones didn’t think that Ghost could get any paler than he was. “Like a _dog?”_

“Oh, excuse my English. I meant general anesthesia.”

Ghost pulled his jumpsuit back over his arms. He zipped it all the way up to his chin. “Why don’t you give me a day or two to think about it?”

Medic looked like a kid who couldn’t have his ice cream. “Is it because Herr Jones is watching?” He looked over his shoulder, following Ghost’s line of sight to the security camera. “He did not interrupt before. You should be fine.”

Jones sat back in his chair. The son of a bitch had known all along. He was mocking Jones with every surgery. Jones swept his hand over his head, wiping the scalp sweat under his do-rag.

The multiple cameras in the infirmary flickered and died. The corresponding monitors snowed with static. Jones grunted and punched the console.

The damned thing turned back on. Ghost was gone. Medic stood alone in the center of the room, arms crossed behind his back.

“There is an open slot for your own procedure, Herr Jones.”

Jones spoke through the intercom. “Is this all some kind of joke to you?”

“Not at all. I take my work very seriously.” Medic swaggered towards the camera. He stopped when it had a perfect view of him from head to toe. “This must have been a disappointing show. You expected me to turn your men into monsters, and I merely performed routine transplants.” He unbuttoned his lab coat, slowly, smearing his bloody gloves on the white fabric. “I should make it up to you.”

Jones wanted to say something. He couldn’t think of one word. He ground his teeth until his whole head hurt.

Medic shrugged his coat to the ground with a twist of his shoulders. Jones had never seen him without it. Medic was tall, lean, and broad-shouldered. He kept his gloves on. When he loosened his necktie, he left bloody fingerprints on his Adam’s apple. He tilted up his chin as he unbuttoned his white dress shirt, exposing his prominent clavicle. His darkly furred chest was defined with vanity muscle. Faggot. Faggot.

Jones had never hated anyone so much. He remembered how Medic’s Nazi prick got stiff when he fucked him. No wonder Medic wasn’t scared of him. The fairy liked it. He was trying to prove that Jones couldn’t win.

Medic pulled a chair over to his position and sank into it, spreading his long legs. He lifted his ass and pushed his pants down to his knees. Jones didn’t get much of a look at his prick before. Medic was circumcised, which didn’t make sense. Medic’s long, cut prick wasn’t stiff yet, but when he smeared it around in his gory glove, it woke up real fast. Medic hooked one arm around the back of the chair and pushed out his heels, tensing his muscular thighs as he pumped his shaft in his glove. He groaned and bit his lip like a hooker.

Jones couldn’t let him think that this display bothered him. He cleared his throat before he switched on the intercom. “You better not leave that room ever again,” he growled, “because I am going to fucking rip you in half the next time I see you.”

Medic moaned and bucked his hips when Jones’s voice crackled through the speaker. His bootheels scraped on the floor. He let go of the chair and used his other hand to play with his balls. He was going fast now, and he raised his hips towards the camera, displaying every inch of his swelling skin.

“You won’t like it next time, you Kraut slut. I will beat you within an inch of your fuckin’ life. You’re gonna be doin’ the rest of your surgeries in a wheelchair.”

Medic’s body arched up in a spasm, but he didn’t come yet. He got up and turned around to put his knee up on the chair. With his ass to the camera, he reached behind himself and slid his bloody, gloved finger into his hole.

“Let’s see you work after I snap your fingers.” Medic moaned and bounced against his hand, upping the tempo. “I’ll shove every last piece of medical equipment up your ass and pull it out your whore mouth.” Medic slapped his own ass and dug his fingers in up to the knuckle, jerking his hole around to stretch it out, gaping it towards the camera.

Jones reached for his zipper. He made himself stop. If he jacked off, Medic would hear it in his voice. The crazy son of a bitch would think he won. Threatening him was only turning him on.

He knew what would turn him off. “Is this the kind of shit they had you doing at Natzweiler?” Medic froze up on the chair with his fingers crammed up his own ass. “Here I was, thinking you were some kind of Nazi doctor, when it turns out you were the camp hooker. Did they line up to get at you, or did they fuck you all at the same time?”

Medic peeled his hand out of himself. He stood up and kept his back to the camera. For a second, he gripped the chair like he needed it to balance, and then he pulled his pants back up.

“What’s the matter? Am I bringin’ up some unpleasant memories of gettin’ stuffed by Nazi dick?” Medic’s flinching shoulders turned him on more than the entire striptease. The knowledge that he had a weakness was intoxicating. “Did they even let you do any doctorin', or did they just keep you around to suck cock?”

Medic couldn’t get dressed fast enough. He missed some buttons on his shirt. He didn’t even put his tie or his coat back on—he flung them over his arm and fled the room, chased by Jones’s laughter.

Jones cut the intercom. _Now_ he could jerk off. He put his boot up on the desk, leaned back, and focused on the glimpse he’d had of Medic’s haunted expression. Mentioning his past was like magic. It transformed Medic into a docile sad sack, just like Jones wanted. He would reopen that wound and force Medic to associate him with everything that kept him up at night. The sissy thought that he was making a statement, but all he proved was that he was made to be crushed underfoot.

He flipped through the monitors as he stroked himself, following Medic’s progress for as far as he could. The surveillance system was rigged up to every room in the base with a bevy of cameras and microphones. Naturally, each mercenary’s first move after arriving at the base was to disable the cameras and mikes in his bunk. Even Medic caught on to the tradition once they showed him to his wired room. Jones tracked him on the monitors as Medic scurried through the halls, bumping into robots on his way, until Medic disappeared into the dead zone.

Jones knew where he slept. He could chase him down and show him that there was nowhere to run. He groaned and tilted his chair back, pumping his hips towards the ceiling as he imagined cornering Medic in his bunk, fucking him in his own bed, making him scream so loud that the whole base heard him get put in his place. Medic would be cowed and quiet before Jones ripped his ass open with the roughest sex of his life, and if he didn’t scream then, Jones would grab his needles, or maybe his saw, and cut on him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Only problem was, when Jones came all over the control panel, he was _done_. He didn’t usually curse his age, but his endurance was a pale imitation of what it used to be. Back in his prime, he could fuck his first, second, and third wives all night. The cocaine helped, until it didn’t, and then the roids helped, until they didn’t. Lately, he was lucky if he could bust a nut once a day.

He should have held off if he wanted to fuck Medic again, but that was the thing about Medic: he worked like a shot to the dick. He made Jones horny as a fucking kid. Jones couldn’t help himself around him, and Medic knew it. Faggots were like that. They played it coy and tempted you, like they thought you were one of them, and then, when you came after them like a real man, they acted like they weren’t asking for it. Medic was no different. First he showed off to the camera, and then he acted all wounded when Jones called him out for acting the whore. Jones would have gotten angry about it all over again if he didn’t need a nap.

Jones left his spunk smeared on the control panel. Let the robots clean that shit up. Jones had been working all day, making sure that their brand new mad scientist didn’t chop anyone’s dick off, and now he deserved some rest.


	4. Chapter 4

Jones tried to nap until sunrise on his cot in the control room, but even though he felt sluggish and exhausted, he couldn’t fall asleep. He saw Medic’s orgasmic face every time he closed his eyes. At 0500 he got up, did push ups, sit ups, pull ups, presses, curls, squats, walked the perimeter, and then dragged himself back the control room with a pitcher of black coffee.

Medic was nowhere on the security cameras. He could have been in his bunk, but the feed in the hall didn’t show him going in or out. Jones drank his coffee and waited. He finished it and got a robot to brew him some more, because he wasn’t getting up until he found Medic. He pissed in the trash can and the robot beeped at him funny like it was getting on his case about it, so he kicked the fucking thing so hard it dented and sparked and smoked, but it was still online, and he told it to take the can away and get the fuck out, and it did.

1000\. No sign of Medic. Either he was sleeping in, which didn’t fit his profile, or he left the premises. There was nothing keeping them on the base, since the guard bots were programmed to let them come and go.

“What the hell’s going on with you, Jonesey?”

Jones grunted. He recognized Bea’s nickname, and her curvy silhouette in the reflection of the monitors, but he didn’t feel like turning around. Truth was, he couldn’t look Bea in the eye after she found him with his dick out in the hallway by the lab, when Medic first got one over on him.

“You’ve been holed up in here for days. The boys are worried.”

“Fuck the boys.” Jones drained his coffee and tossed it over his shoulder. The cleaner bot caught the empty cup and whirred away. “Ain’t none of you grateful for what I been doin’.”

“You haven’t been doing shit!” She sounded incredulous. He gritted his teeth. “Ever since you started sleeping in the control room, we’ve been pulling your dead weight. We have a job to do.”

“So do I!” Jones jumped to his feet. A rush of blood made him lightheaded, and he struggled not to show it. Bea’s frown told him that he had failed. “I’m tryin’a make sure that Nazi faggot don’t cut any’a y’all to pieces!”

Bea rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, he said he was _finished._ He said you were the last procedure.”

Jones didn’t hear her right. He couldn’t have. “He never operated on me,” he said.

“Sure he did. That was the day I found you outside of the lab.” Bea cocked her eyebrow. “In all your glory.”

Jones couldn’t breathe. He ran his hands over his chest. There were no new scars, no bruises, but his heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. “Get away from me,” he gasped.

Bea stepped towards him. “Jonesey?”

Jones tried to get some air and could only make a rattling noise. She kept coming at him, so he popped her in the mouth. That was a mistake. She bulldozed him to the ground and stomped on his neck with her boots. He grabbed her ankle and knocked her down on her hip, but she had more padding than he thought. She leaned back on her ass and kicked him so hard in the face that he slid across the control room floor.

“Fuck you, you no-good son of a bitch,” Bea screamed as she limped to her feet. “Fuckin’ scumbag rat shit loser!” Her native Boston really came out when she was mad. Jones wanted to rip off her jumpsuit and fuck her on top of the security panel.

He never got the chance. He couldn’t get up, in every sense of the phrase. She slammed the door and carried on yelling down the hall. Jones twitched on the floor, fighting to breathe through a broken nose and a crushed windpipe.

Eventually, the cleaning robot came puttering back on its hourly route through the control room. Jones grabbed the machine on its way past him and used it as a counterbalance so that he could stand. The hovering can tipped to the side, spilling Jones back to the ground.

Jones rolled over and pulled his knees towards his pounding chest. He had watched Medic cut his men open and replace their hearts with oversized monstrosities. Jones thought he was avoiding Medic’s knife by staying in the control room, but the cause was already lost. Medic stole his heart, and Jones could do fuck all about it.

Jones would have to kill him. That was the only way out. He could break Medic’s neck like a chicken.

He could fuck him while he was still warm.

Jones slammed the side of his fist into the floor. He couldn’t escape his own thoughts. He saw Medic’s body under him. His head dangled like a broken doll. The last time Jones raped Medic, he fought like hell. Jones would have more time to enjoy it if Medic was dead.

Jones covered his face and screamed into his hands until he ran out of air. His head swam as he crawled over to the wall and staggered to his feet. He felt hollowed out from the inside.

He checked the ammunition in his handgun. Two shots in Medic’s head would put an end to everything. His dick throbbed at the idea of tearing a new hole into Medic’s corpse and taking its virginity.

Jones prowled the base with his hard on cramped up in his pants. He had to catch the wall every few feet as he made his way to the lab. He prepared to kick Medic’s office open, but the door was unlocked.

Medic sat surrounded by papers at his desk, sucking on the end of a fountain pen. His eyes flashed wide in his glasses when he saw Jones. Jones pointed the gun at Medic’s face.

“Herr Jones—”

Jones whipped Medic’s cheekbone with the barrel of the gun, knocking his glasses across the room. Medic fell sideways over his chair and tumbled to the ground on his back. Jones kicked the chair away and stepped on Medic’s chest. Medic clutched at Jones’s combat boots and squirmed under him. He cried out in panic when Jones pointed the gun again.

Jones knelt down, transferring all his weight into his foot until he felt Medic’s ribs crack. Medic’s jaw muscles bulged as he grit his teeth through the pain.

“Not so smug now, huh?” Jones saw Medic reaching for his pocket. He hit him with the pistol again, cutting into the bruise on his cheekbone. “What’s that?” Jones reached into Medic’s pocket and pulled out a syringe. “You were gonna stick me with this, you Nazi bastard.”

“I’m not a Nazi,” Medic groaned. “I was never—”

Jones jammed the gun into Medic’s mouth. “Then show me how you sucked Nazi dick at the camp.”

Medic’s eyes welled up with tears. They spilled over his cheeks and dripped on his glasses as he gaped at Jones, his swollen lips distended around the gun. Jones stabbed the gun past Medic’s back teeth, prodding his throat. “Do it,” he barked.

Medic tried to say something. Jones twisted the gun in his mouth to motivate him, but Medic just kept talking until he took the gun away. “Damn it, _what?”_

“Don’t you want me to suck you instead?” Medic asked in a breathless rush.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” Jones spat, as his dick leapt to attention. “You’ll bite my dick off.”

“No—” Jones grabbed Medic by the neck, squeezing to shut him up. Medic’s pulse throbbed against his palm. He clawed at Jones and pulled uselessly on his wrist.

Jones felt like his cock was gonna explode. He had to fuck Medic before he came all over the place. He flipped Medic over on his stomach and used his knees to pin Medic’s thighs to the ground. Medic’s hands scrabbled on the floor as he tried to get away.

Jones pushed up Medic’s skirt, pulled down his pants, and fucked him dry. Medic screamed and thrashed as Jones snapped his hips forward with bruising intent. He was still crying when he gave up the fight. Jones grabbed the back of Medic’s skull and twisted his head to the side so that he could watch his face fall apart.

The sex was so good that it couldn’t last long. Jones painted Medic’s coat with cum. He hung over Medic and caught his breath. Medic shivered and gasped, hyperventilating under him.

“Quit cryin’. Didn’t even hurt you that bad,” Jones taunted. “What’s the matter, you want your magic gun so you can shoot yourself better?” He paused as an idea came to him. If the Medigun could heal someone, why couldn’t it get his dick back up?

Jones couldn’t let Medic run loose while he tested his theory. He pulled his limp cock out of Medic and cracked him on the head with the gun to keep him in line. Then, he unknotted his red neck tie. “Can’t believe you wore this again,” he said as he hogtied Medic’s wrists and ankles together behind his back. “It’s like you wanted me to use it.”

Medic didn’t answer. His black hair plastered to his pale forehead with sweat. As Medic shook with silent sobs, Jones rolled him on his side and prodded Medic’s exposed prick with the toe of his boot. This was the first time Jones got a good look at it up close, and just like he suspected from the security footage, Medic was circumcised.

“Cut, huh?” Jones grinned at Medic, eager to confirm his catch. “You’re a Jew?”

Medic sucked the snot back into his nose and glared up at Jones. “I thought you had all the intel,” he hissed.

Jones whistled, long and low. “So you were killin’ your own people?” Medic made a real effort to keep looking angry, but his eyes spilled over again. “Cuttin’em up like rats.”

“You don’t understand—”

Jones kicked Medic in the stomach. Medic gasped and tried to curl in half, but the hogtie prevented it. “I think I understand plenty. You fit right in with them doctors. You had it so good that they smuggled you into Brazil. That’s why Mossad let you go, wasn’t it?”

Medic’s brow furrowed. He glanced at Jones, then looked away.

Jones stomped on Medic’s ribs. “Wasn’t it?”

Medic wailed, “Yes! Because I’m a Jew.”

“A fuckin’ Nazi kike. First you kill Christ, and now this.” Jones shook his head. “Looks like I’m doin’ the world a favor by getting rid of you.”

“So kill me!” Medic shouted, writhing on the floor.

“Not yet.” Jones stepped over him and searched the office for Medic’s field kit. He found the charge pack beside Medic’s desk, connected to what looked like a modified fire hose. Even though the boys hadn’t moved out yet, Medic kept his kit ready as if he expected to go any minute.

Jones picked up the nozzle of the Medigun and pulled the lever. The charge pack hummed, and acrid blue vapor wisped from the end. One sniff of the stuff made all of Jones’s aches and pains vanish instantly.

Jones pointed the nozzle at his crotch. He carefully exposed his spent cock, presenting the sensitive flesh so that the vapor could hit it from every angle. Within seconds, his erection rose like Lazarus.

Medic watched the process with bare-faced terror, realizing that Jones could fuck him indefinitely. He shook visibly as Jones approached him. Jones regretted beating Medic so much earlier. Now he was too scared to speak at all.

Jones would fix that. He knelt down by Medic and grasped his balls in his hand. Medic whined, and his pulse throbbed in his sac as he clasped his thighs together, trying and failing to protect his junk.

Jones squeezed Medic’s balls with slowly mounting pressure. Medic shredded his lips with his teeth in his struggle to keep silent. When Jones started to yank, Medic finally cried out.

“Beg me to stop.” Jones kneaded Medic like dough in his palm.

“ _Verpiss dich,_ ” Medic groaned.

Jones laughed. He kept laughing as he raised his fist. He centered Medic’s balls in his hand and punched down.

Medic’s scream didn’t come out all the way. His face turned purple. He shuddered, spasming like he was about to vomit, and then he fainted like the damsel he was.

Jones slapped him across the face. “You can’t fool me that easy.” Medic kept playing dead. Jones hit him until Medic’s lips split, and still, Medic didn’t so much as flinch.

Undeterred, Jones flipped Medic back to his stomach and undressed him as much as he could, given Medic’s bondage. Medic’s hogtied limbs contorted across his back, pinning his rumpled coat underneath the heels of his boots. His open pants caught halfway down his thighs and exposed his muscular ass. Jones spanked him for good measure, leaving handprints edged in the blood from Medic’s battered face.

Jones decided to fuck him awake. He spread Medic’s knees as wide as the tie allowed and dragged Medic backwards into his lap, spearing Medic’s bleeding asshole with his cock. Medic’s insides were already beat up, but Jones felt fresher than ever. His dick had never been so hard. He could go for hours.

Even unconscious, Medic was tighter inside than anyone Jones had ever taken. Jones squeezed his cock in and out of Medic’s little hole, teasing himself with the pressure as he enjoyed his new longevity. He spread Medic’s folded legs as far apart as they could go, until Medic’s taut anal ring was fit to rip around Jones.

Jones paced his thrusts to keep himself from going over the edge too soon, but he made each one count. He wanted Medic to rupture deep inside, where nothing else could reach. Jones plowed him so violently that Medic’s head snapped up and down on his limp neck. Jones grabbed the back of Medic’s skull and shoved his face into the tile, smearing a curving red streak across the floor.

As Jones got closer to the edge, he transferred his grip to Medic’s shoulders, dragging Medic’s entire body back and forth like a glove around his cock. He pumped Medic full of his seed and slipped his hand underneath, rubbing the soft skin of Medic’s belly.

Medic shuddered and twisted his head to the side. His cut cock twitched by Jones’s fingers. Jones ripped his hand away in disgust. After he emptied his balls, he could no longer tolerate another man in his lap, especially not a Jew. He pushed Medic off of his cock and kicked him in the ribs once he got to his feet.

Medic gasped, convincing Jones that he was starting to wake up. Jones circled Medic and considered his options. Fuck him, torture him, kill him, or all of the above? Anything seemed fair in light of Medic’s past. Jones could give himself another stiffy with the Medigun and continue fucking Medic until he bled to death from his ass.

Jones reconsidered when he imagined Medic’s blood leaking into his own pisshole. He wanted to rape Medic to death, but he would do it with something else. Something good. Jones searched Medic’s office, whistling with sadistic joy.

“Herr Jones,” Medic whimpered from the floor. Jones turned to kick him again. “Your heart,” Medic blurted, stopping Jones. “If you kill me, you will never fix your heart.”

Jones squatted by Medic’s face. Medic’s teeth chattered as Jones stared at him. Jones spoke slowly, calmly, flaunting his power, hiding the residual panic that had crippled him earlier that day. “That ain’t really _my_ heart, now, is it?”

“Be that as it may, the baboon heart is keeping you alive, and in that heart is the Übercharge device,” said Medic, narrowing his eyes. “Without maintenance, it could overload.”

Jones swept his eyes up and down Medic’s humbled body. He patted Medic’s head, and Medic cringed against the ground. “You know what? I think you’re a good doctor. You wouldn’t do nothin’ to hurt me.”

Jones left Medic weeping silently on the floor and roamed the lab, hunting for the perfect tool to destroy Medic’s ass. Improvised shelving took over most of the lab’s floor space, housing endless jars that contained preserved lumps of flesh that looked like organs. Jones searched the labels and growled when he only found Latin names. Didn’t matter. None of those things looked stiff enough to do the job.

Soft cooing calls drew his attention. Jones glared up at the pigeons flocking in the rafters. Every time he came back to this fucking room, there was another bird. One perched nearby on a stack of crates. He lunged to grab it, but it flitted away, spooking the whole group into flying out of an open skylight panel. Jones threw a jar and only got one of them. The white pigeon crashed to the floor, pinned under an enormous liver.

Jones walked over and stomped it into a mushy pink pile of bones and feathers. Good riddance. He was sick of finding bird shit all over the base. He thought about how great his life would be once he killed Medic. He could sleep again. He could sleep with women again.

Jones tried to hold a fantasy in his mind as he searched the lab. He pictured his last wife, a young girl in her twenties that he paid to marry him so that he could have someone around when he went home. She claimed that she liked rough sex, but she divorced Jones after he gave her a concussion, slamming her head against the bedroom wall, like how he killed that hooker. His wife was a delicate little thing. When it happened, Jones was holding her off the floor and drilling her up against the wall as she wrapped her arms and legs around him.

Jones imagined fucking Medic the same way. He saw Medic’s strong limbs wind around him, anchoring his body to Jones as they rocked together.

Hatred burned in his veins. Jones picked up the nearest jar and smashed it on the floor. It felt good, so he grabbed the next one and did it again. He destroyed an entire shelf jar by jar, flooding the floor with fluid and glass and spongy chunks of flesh, until he noticed a blade peeking over the top edge of a free-standing supply cabinet.

Jones reached up and retrieved Medic’s hidden bone saw. Fluorescent light caught the ridges of its teeth. The tool had a pointed bayonet attached to the front. Jones would see how it handled Medic’s insides.

“You don’t want to do this,” pleaded Medic as Jones stood over him. “Your heart won’t last with the device I added, not at your age. You need me to maintain it for you.”

Jones knelt behind Medic, enjoying how Medic turned his head as far as he could in order to keep his eyes on the saw. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He lined the blade up between Medic’s cheeks, which Medic clenched in a useless effort to protect his asshole.

“Please, don’t,” Medic sobbed.

“Is that what the other Jews said before you cut ‘em up?” Jones savored Medic’s deep, pained groan. “Maybe if you tell me what you did, I’ll let you go.”

Medic laughed weakly. “No, you won’t.” Turned out, he was pretty smart after all.

Jones relished in the driving the point of the bayonet into Medic’s hole, pushing as deep as it could go, and then twisting it like a key in a hole. The sawblade split his flesh and bone, cutting easily through Medic’s pelvis. Medic’s thrashing and screaming only exposed more of his innards to grievous harm. Shredded chunks of Medic’s anal canal spilled between his legs and puddled on the floor. Jones dropped the saw in disgust when Medic’s shit dribbled out among the blood and bile.

Medic spent his last moments in agonized disgrace. He choked and whimpered, twitching in a contorted pile of limbs and gore on the tile. Jones stood back and admired the results he had achieved with just a few twists of the bone saw. He thought about using the healing gun to shoot Medic back together, so that he could rip him apart again, but he had already achieved his goal. Medic was dead, and the boys were safe. No one needed to know the details.

Jones took the healing gun for himself. He slung the charge pack over his back and cradled the hose in one palm. Without Medic around to spontaneously turn him on, Jones could use the kit to keep his dick hard.

As he punched a command into the console, ordering the cleaning robots to dispose of Medic’s remains, Jones palmed his erection. His insides squeezed with something like grief. Medic turned him on like nothing else, and now he was dead. Medic’s blood dried tacky in the creases of his fingers and clotted on his shaft as Jones leaned back in the control chair and masturbated furiously. He fixed his eyes on Medic’s twisted corpse, memorizing the image for many nights to come.


	5. Chapter 5

Medic was dead, but his disgusting birds still infested the base. They sat on the roof and hung out in the hangar, shitting all over the vehicles, cooing and chirping to each other like little faggots.

Jones went up to the roof the next morning, after he spent all night jacking off to memories of Medic, renewing himself with the Medigun, and starting again. He had none of the chafing or tenderness that he expected from a marathon masturbation session. Every time he used the healing vapor to restore his stiffy, it was like he was hard for the first time.

Jones would have holed up in his bunk for a week if he didn’t notice bird shit on his window. His relief turned to rage. As long as the pigeons remained, Medic wasn’t truly gone.

Jones stomped up the stairwell to the roof, where the pigeons slept in their coop. The complex structure, with multiple levels of flooring and bedding, looked like Medic had custom built it for his precious flock. The birds fluttered contentedly in their shelter. Only one of them took wing when it saw Jones coming. The others didn’t pay no mind. The little rats liked to hang around people and look for scraps. They should have been more afraid of Jones.

Jones locked the doors to the coop, trapping the birds inside. Feathers flew out of the gaps in the chain link walls as the birds cottoned on to their situation and tried to escape.

Jones whistled as he poured gasoline on the wood and wire, soaking the hay bedding. The pigeons frantically shook drops of oil from their wings. He smiled and lit a match.

An explosion of pain nearly brought Jones to the ground. His back split open like ripe meat below the seam in his body armor. Jones dropped the match on the gravel and spun around, reaching behind himself for the thing that was stuck in him.

A fist slammed into his jaw and dropped him on the floor. Jones felt the blade slide out of the open wound next to his spine.

Medic stood above him, stomping out the match. He angled the dripping bone saw in his hand and thrust it down at Jones.

Jones caught the saw before the blade pierced his belly. He grappled for the weapon with two hands, twisting in a growing lake of his own blood.

“How,” Jones stammered, “how, how are you—”

Medic kicked Jones in the face. Jones felt his jaw pop out of the left socket, but he didn’t lose his grip. He knew that he was stronger than Medic. He jerked on the saw, using Medic’s own stubborn grip against him. Medic fell on top of Jones, and Jones flipped over to pin him, screaming through the agony in his back. All he had to do was disarm Medic.

Medic didn’t make it easy. Somehow, he was completely unharmed, as if nothing had ever happened to him. They grappled for the saw, rolling around on the roof, until they slammed into the side of the coop. Medic snatched at the door lock. Oily pigeons scattered from the open exit, flapping clumsily to safety.

Jones took advantage of the distraction by socking Medic in the stomach. More tissue ripped loose in Jones’s back, but the blow paid off. Medic momentarily lost his grip on the saw handle. The second he did, Jones turned the blade around and punched the point through Medic’s throat. Medic spasmed, grasping the saw, as blood bubbled up in his mouth and spilled down the sides of his face.

Jones lay on top of Medic for a minute and made sure that Medic’s eyes glazed and his wounds stopped draining. He should have confirmed that Medic was dead last time. Without Respawn, the only explanation was that Medic had survived long enough to drag himself to his backup healing gun. Medic wore the spare kit now, and the charge hummed inside the pack long after Medic’s heart stopped.

Jones wasn’t about to take another chance. He drew his handgun and fired two shots into Medic’s forehead that demolished the back of his skull. Then, he turned the nozzle of the healing hose on himself and activated the vapor. His jaw snapped back into place. His pain dissolved along with the wounds in his back, and his dick throbbed, filling the vacuum of sensation with adrenaline-fueled lust.

As he holstered his pistol, Jones studied Medic’s limp body and considered fucking the hole in his throat. He could penetrate Medic’s mouth from below, thrusting behind his back teeth as the shredded gore squeezed around his cock. He could sit on Medic’s chest and pump cum into his mouth until it came out of his nostrils. When he ripped his throat too wide to fuck, he could make another, tighter hole, maybe in Medic’s belly. What would it feel like to hump Medic’s guts?

Too soon, Jones shot his premature load out of his open fly. Thick ropes of cum splattered across Medic’s coat. Jones planted his feet on the ground and started to heal his dick back to working order, but as he looked down at Medic’s defiled corpse, his arousal faded to disgust. Jones couldn’t forget his responsibility. He had to get rid of Medic to protect the team.

Mann’s robots were supposed to keep the base clean of everything from beer bottles to giblets, but the tin cans failed to dispose of Medic’s body the first time. “Just goes to show, you can’t send a machine to do a man’s job,” Jones said out loud to himself.

“ _Das stimmt,_ ” agreed Medic.

Jones shot the rest of his bullets into Medic’s face. He reloaded the pistol and emptied the clip again, reducing Medic’s features to an oozing cavern. Then, he grabbed Medic’s ankles. He dragged Medic off the roof and down the stairs, spilling Medic’s brains across the concrete steps.

Jones couldn’t wait for one of the mercs to see him so that he could tell them about the good he’d done by getting rid of Medic, but no one was around. Bea probably ran off to bitch to the others after Jones beat her up. They were all avoiding him. Didn’t matter. They would thank him later.

The field behind the parking lot became Medic’s final resting place. Jones chopped the body into pieces with Medic’s saw. He dug a shallow grave and kicked Medic’s arms, legs, and torso inside the hole.

Only Medic’s head remained. Somehow, the glasses were still attached to his mutilated face. Only the left lens remained in the round frame. Jones stole them and wiped the bloody, cracked lens on his shirt. He closed his right eye and squinted at the distorted view of Medic’s dismembered head.

“Ain’t you gonna say somethin’?” Jones snarled.

Medic’s head had nothing to say. Jones watched it for longer than he wanted to admit, taking the glasses on and off and switching eyes to look from different perspectives. Then, he punted the head into the grave and worked double time to refill the hole.

Jones twisted Medic’s glasses in his hands as he walked back inside. The wire earpieces bent easily, as weak as Medic himself. Jones forced himself to laugh. Medic stole himself a second chance, and Jones put him back in the ground.

Jones kept Medic’s glasses by the bed in his bunk. Along with the stolen Medigun and bonesaw, Jones had nearly all of Medic’s personal effects showcased in his room. Jones wondered what he was missing, what he could take next time.

There wouldn’t be a next time. Medic wasn’t coming back. There was no Respawn. Jones made sure that Medic was dead, and no one else knew where he was buried. He closed his eyes, jerked his dick, and summoned memories of Medic’s writhing, bound body as he raped him, as he killed him, as he mutilated his body until every gaping hole cried out for Jones to fuck it. He heard Medic’s voice whispering to him, not making any sense, not saying anything he recognized, but hissing, growling, like an animal, like a demon.

 

* * *

 

Jones sat up. He heard a faint sound, magnified by the deathly silence of the base. It sounded like someone crying out with high pitched wails. Jones thought of Medic.

Instantly, he was on his feet and in the hall. He identified the trembling sound of violin strings. The distant music echoed off the sterile walls, swelling and ebbing with subtle flourishes. It was the best damn fiddle Jones ever heard, direct from a concert hall.

The paranoia that protected Jones for the last seventy years suddenly wasn’t there to stop him from following the unseen instrument. Jones walked towards it, compelled. All he could think of was how beautiful and complicated the piece was, and how its player’s arm must have been flying across the strings.

Jones was halfway into the lab when he figured out what was going on, but by then, he had gathered too much speed to stop. His body kept walking towards the office where he killed Medic. His hand turned the doorknob.

Medic didn’t react to him at first. His eyes stared far into the distance. His cheek pressed into the violin as he completed the song, balancing the bow on the strings with a light touch of his fingers and an elastic snap of his wrist. He wasn’t dead no more, that was clear enough, but he couldn’t be alive, and Jones knew that this was all a dream, so he just stood there for a minute and listened.

Medic lowered the bow to his side. He adjusted his whole, unbroken glasses on his face and held the violin by its neck. “Mendelssohn,” he solemnly informed Jones, before he swung the violin like a club at his head.

Jones woke up strapped to the operating table. The healing gun wasn’t turned on. When Medic came at him with the saw, Jones knew it was going to hurt. Medic severed his legs with clean, efficient gashes through muscle and bone, much like he sawed the bow across the violin. When the last string of flesh peeled off Jones’s hips, Medic took up a blowtorch and cauterized the stumps. Jones felt every cut and burn, but he kept silent, burying his screams inside of himself and narrowing his focus to his hatred.

Medic told Jones he needed a wheelchair now. Jones didn’t care none about that because Fred Conagher didn’t have legs and he could deal with being half robot. That was when Medic told him that Fred was gone. Ghost was gone. Bea and Ross and the two Gregs and Virgil were gone. They were all gone, and it was just Jones and Medic, all alone.

Jones told Medic to go fuck himself, so Medic took up a scalpel and gutted him. Medic sliced out his liver, his kidneys, and other shit that Jones didn’t know what the fuck they were called. He handled them all so delicately with his long fingers, and Jones told him that he was gonna break those fingers, and Medic answered him by grabbing the end of his intestine and yanking it like a pull string toy. Jones’s guts spilled out, all pink and brown and shiny, flopping around the stumps of his legs, and Medic wrapped the tube around Jones’s dick and balls and jerked him off, lubing him with his blood and his stomach acid and his half-digested food, and then Medic climbed on top of him and came down Jones’s throat, and then he put Jones’s intestine up to his mouth and made him eat the cum over and over again.

Jones couldn’t wake himself up, and he had no legs to defend himself when Medic used the scalpel to slice open his taint down to his asshole. Then, he took Jones’s favorite heavy gun, the assault cannon, and thrust it into his newly elongated hole. The metal barrel jutted through the gaping chasm that was Jones’s gutted midsection. Medic pulled the trigger and shredded Jones’s intestine and groin with bullets, and Jones was just happy that the loop of his guts was severed, and he didn’t have to taste Medic’s cum no more.

Medic pulled out the weapon and used his cut Jew prick to fuck Jones where it used to be. He said that Jones had a nice big pussy now, and Jones said that none of this mattered because he would fuck Medic as soon as he freed himself, and Medic reached around and grabbed Jones’s dick, which was still perfectly whole and perfectly hard. Medic taunted him about being a pain-loving bitch and flaunted a thin metal pole at Jones. When Jones tried to ignore it, Medic jammed the sound deep into his pisshole. Jones started screaming then. His dick burned, distended around the inflexible metal, bobbing painfully as Medic rutted against him.

Jones started to sweat. He blinked hard, but the scene never changed. He had no control over his dream. Medic punched out Jones’s teeth as he was fucking him. Fragments scattered on the floor and in Jones’s open chest, and they stuck in Jones’s wounds. Medic ran his tongue across the loose nerves in Jones’s oozing gums. When Medic came, his spunk squirted out of Jones’s open ribs and painted Jones’s face.

Medic rubbed his cum into Jones’s cheeks. His long nails scratched Jones like claws. He forced Jones to look at him, and Jones quailed when he saw Medic’s face changing shape before his eyes, sharpening, lengthening, reddening. Two curving black horns jutted from Medic’s forehead. Medic loomed above Jones, and a pair of batlike wings snapped open behind him, blocking all light in the room, plunging Jones into darkness. The last thing Jones saw before he woke up was Medic lunging towards him with a mouthful of pointed teeth.

A crunching bite rang Jones’s head as he sat up. It was dark. He looked down. His legs were whole, and damp with piss. His head ached. Medic’s personal effects were exactly where he left them, scattered like trash around the bunk.

The clock said 0300. After a shower and a change of bedding, Jones went through the motions of his exercise routine. He didn’t see anyone else in the bathrooms or the gym.

Medic killed them all. He came back and Jones couldn’t stop him.

Jones slapped himself across the face. He wasn’t gonna lose his mind now that he finally took back control of his team. They were probably just off the base on individual missions, tracking their targets. The control room would have information about their status.

Jones opened the control room door to pitch black. All of the security screens were dead. Light from the hallway barely touched the inside of the room, illuminating nothing but the tiles directly in front of Jones.

Jones drew his pistol and put his arm out to the side, brushing the wall. The control panel was directly to his left. Flipping the switch inside would reboot the system. Jones touched the metal box and reached for his keys with his other hand.

Something huge slammed into Jones, crushing him against the wall. He screamed as he felt two thick, pointed spikes impaling his shoulder, like the horns of a bull. The spikes tore out the other side of his back. The thing wrenched its horns from side to side, mauling open his shoulder. Jones fired every shot in his sidearm’s clip, but the small caliber bullets ricocheted off the monster's thick skull and came back at him, peppering holes in the wall.

The creature whipped its head and tossed Jones into the air. He flew like a ragdoll and slammed into the control console with a shower of sparks. Every muscle convulsed, locking him into a full body contraction. White hot electric surges lanced and crackled across him, singing his hair and shocking him deep inside of his brain. He watched helplessly as the thing approached.

Snapping lights revealed Medic’s twisted form. It was bigger than Medic ever was, but thinner, like Medic was stretched out over the monster inside. Its shredded bat wings filled the entire room and held level as it walked with a hunched, unnatural gait, one elongated arm stretched forward for support. Its twisted goat legs and cloven hooves clipped across the tile, leaving half-moon prints in its wake.

Jones resisted the electric current long enough to grab his shotgun off his back. Before he could rack it, Medic’s talons sliced across his arm, catching the gun and flinging it across the room. Medic’s maw split wide open to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Its forked tongue flickered in front of Jones’s nostrils, scenting the pain on his breath as he suffered through the shocks.

Seconds before Jones blacked out forever, Medic grabbed him by his arm and threw him again, slamming him into the wall of blank security screens. The impact cracked Jones’s spine in half. Smoke curled off of his burning skin. His legs didn’t respond when he hit the ground and tried to crawl to safety.

Medic played with its food. It let Jones scrabble in pants-shitting panic for a few seconds before it grabbed him by his numb legs and threw him, again and again, using Jones to destroy the entire surveillance room. By the time the last screen shattered, Jones wanted to beg for death.

He wouldn’t give Medic the satisfaction. He lay in the wreckage of the televisions and bit his tongue in half to silence himself. Medic let out a low, grating, evil growl as it stood over Jones. It flipped him over from his side to his back and ripped away his body armor. When his belly was laid bare, it slashed Jones open with its talons, spilling his guts across the floor.

Jones finally screamed as it lunged down and began to eat him. Red mucus frothed in his throat and made every breath a mortal struggle. Jones felt his intestines unspooling like a fleshy hose, drawn from deep inside himself into the sickening maw of the creature. Still, Jones wasn't afraid. The electrocution had fried his brain to charred meat, melting away everything but his hatred.

He hated this monster, this demon, this fucking blight on his life. He had done so much and given too much of himself to put it in the ground forever, and now it was back, haunting him, damning him, eating him alive.

Broken glass pierced every inch of Jones’s arms, but he could still move them. His frayed sinews popped as he summoned his wrath and grabbed Medic by the horns. The devil roared, splattering Jones with chunks of his own flesh. He roared back and snapped its head to the side, wrenching its skull around on its neck. Its wings beat the ground and sent currents through the room that whipped the glass into the air. Even as the shards cut into his face, his eyes, his open mouth, Jones held on. Medic lifted them both from the ground until its back hit the ceiling, and then it thrashed against the walls, breaking its own wings in its fight to free itself from Jones.

Jones knew he had the bastard when Medic’s head fell to the side and failed to lift back up again. He twisted Medic’s head all the way around on its broken neck, and its wings stopped beating. It crashed to the floor. Jones landed on top of it, tangled in its arms and legs as it kicked and scratched him in its dying throes. Its claws caught his innards and tugged the last yards of his intestine out into the open, leaving Jones hollow inside.

Everything under his ribs was strewn around the room. He wasn’t making it out alive. Even if he could soldier through the pain and crawl outside, his guts were wrapped around Medic. Jones would pull his own heart and lungs out of his body if he tried to get away.

Unless he cut himself free. Jones grasped his intestine where it emerged from his body, taut like a fishing line. He gripped Medic’s twisted hand and used one of its claws to slice the fleshy tube. The torn end flapped out of Jones’s ribs, spraying stomach acid.

Jones fell backwards. He wasn’t sure if his vision blacked out or if he was just looking at the dark ceiling. He tried to move his legs until he remembered that he was paralyzed. His lungs pushed painfully against his other displaced organs as he took a deep breath. He set his arm against the floor, rolling himself over. Blood rained out of his open belly on the tile below. Jones reached ahead of himself and pulled, dragging his useless back half.

Arm by arm, he crawled out of the control room. The hallway blurred until he couldn’t read the signs. He had to make his way back to his bunk from memory. He had to get the Medigun and regrow his insides. Jones heard low, maniacal, gasping laughter. He stopped to catch his breath, and the sound went quiet. He started moving again, and the laughter returned, ringing in his ears with his sluggish heartbeat. The hallway stretched out for miles ahead of him. His legs existed to cause him pain. The ragged edge of his intestine belched out the last remnants of his vital fluids from his deflated stomach. He caught the trailing end of his guts under his elbow, and a long seam of skin ripped away from the underside of his spine. Lumps of meat collided wetly with the ground.

Jones looked down at the baboon heart and lungs heaped on the floor. Rancid pockets of foreign flesh inflated unevenly between a patchwork of stitches and metal panels.

Monkey organs. Nazi hardware. That’s what was keeping him alive all this time? What a joke.


	6. Chapter 6

“A man’s got needs, Bill.”

That was the last thing Jones’s daddy ever said to him before he got himself shot in downtown Atlanta over a fifteen-year-old girl. Jones never blamed his daddy for fucking her. She went to school with Jones back in the day. Tits since twelve, doll face, blonde hair, blue eyes, legs for days, a real slut; Jones would have fucked her, too, but she was sweet on older men. Rumor had it her father killed Jones Sr. because he was jealous that his little girl wasn’t keeping it in the family no more.

Jones tried to live by his daddy’s example. Life was too short to work on a peanut farm and die in the same house where he was born. Jones made his fortune with TF and never looked back. He murdered, raped, cheated, and stole. He got away with everything, and he felt damn good about it. He slept like a baby at night.

Doc said it was all okay. If Doc was still around, he would tell Jones what to do about all the problems he was having lately.

Someone spoke to him. The strange, booming voice traveled to Jones’s ear as if through water. “I gave you Lapointe.”

Jones didn’t understand. He didn’t know where he was. He opened his eyes.

Colorless fluid crushed against his eyeballs, clouding his vision. The world stretched around him and distorted with the unpredictability of a funhouse mirror.

“You could have found Lapointe at any time and released your frustrations on him.”

Doc’s giant face filled Jones’s entire view, angry like Jones had never seen him. Wrinkles surged across the vast white plain of his forehead and creased valleys into the corners of his mouth as he snarled at Jones.

“But you had to have Ludwig. Why is that? You never wanted him before.”

Jones tried to explain how Medic seduced him with its faggot wiles. His jaw moved in slow motion through the fluid, and the sound never came out.

“This is all my fault. I grew too attached to my earliest work. I should have left your remains in Natzweiler.”

Jones blinked hard. Bright flashes of light assaulted him behind his eyelids. The deafening thunder of artillery faded in and out of his consciousness.

“Answer me, _Jung._ You don’t still believe that your Georgian rube past was true, do you? I spliced that drifter’s brain into yours to keep your stupid mouth shut about the past.”

Again, Jones tried to plead that he didn’t know what the hell Doc was talking about, but the problem was that he couldn’t speak at all.

“I would give Ludwig the satisfaction of fixing your memories, but, as there is only _one_ of him now, he is otherwise occupied. My imprecise hand will have to do.”

Doc’s face receded from view, revealing a screen behind it. Jones stared at a warped image of himself through a security camera. He was standing in the base, next to Gray and the boys. They were alive.

“Where’s the new guy?” barked the other Jones.

“Wait! Are we leaving?” Medic’s voice answered. The monster stepped into view, wearing its human disguise. Jones watched himself argue with Medic like he had no idea what it was, what it could become.

“Do you like it?” asked Doc, speaking over the surreal conversation on the security feed. “It is a perfect replica of you, as I made you. Respawn is truly a miracle of science.

“ _My_ miracle.

“And you nearly destroyed it all when you killed Ludwig.”

_It was the devil, Doc. You don’t understand._

“So I will teach you a lesson, Jung.” Giant hands encircled the sky around Jones. The world twisted, whirling in liquid eddies before his eyes, and came to rest on another distorted scene.

Jones looked at himself again, but this copy wasn’t on a television screen. His clone’s lifeless, naked body floated upright in a vat of clear liquid. Jones looked left and right and recognized rows and rows of himself, stretching as far as he could see from his limited perspective.

“You will make me more money than anyone ever dreamed,” said Doc. “First, your clone will do its job. Then, I am going to make you the leader of a one man army, just like you always wanted. Every time one of your brothers takes a bullet, you will feel it in the body that you no longer have. And you will be grateful for this, because in so doing, you will live forever.”

Doc held up a mirror. Jones saw his own disembodied head, tethered by neck to a power cable and preserved in a jar. The sluggish motions of his jaw, the uncoordinated pursing of his lips, the drifting focus of his eyes—all halted in despair.


End file.
